


Shit Luck

by apologeticshoulderblades



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:13:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apologeticshoulderblades/pseuds/apologeticshoulderblades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dense metalheads aren't very good at handling feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shit Luck

_"It provokes desire, but takes away performance." God, who said that?_ Nathan thought between the long gazes at his dull black boots and the equally uninspiring blacks of his nails. He did remember that it was about alcohol, and perhaps that was why the words stuck to his mind like wet spaghetti sticks to a wall; the way his mother taught him that they were cooked all the way through when he was a child years ago. Looking back on it, he found the information completely useless. He knew there was a reason why his mind kept him from writing, glancing at the leather bound book that held at least the past twenty drafts of songs he's written, but that reason was not to surface in the noetic tangle that made up his psyche, not just yet. He sighed and tossed aside his reading glasses. _We both know you're not gonna write a fucking song today._ He thought as he rose from the edge of his bed, but then sat again. Why was he avoiding him?

Yesterday had been like any other recording session for Dethklok, even when Nathan pressed the familiar delete button that wiped the system clear of the day's work. No one was surprised, and everyone had been pissed to say the least, especially Pickles.

When everyone cleared the booth, only he and Nathan remained. Pickles found himself on to his feet surprisingly quickly, although they all had made a point to record this album completely inebriated. Frustration had built itself stark in Pickles' mind after weeks of recording, and it was rearing it's head. As he rose, so did Nathan, which gave Pickles the opportunity to puff out his chest and do a lot of finger-jabbing.

"YOU did it again! You did it again. You deleted an entire fucking record! An entire fucking record. Do you know how fucking hard we're working right now, for nothing?!" his voice wavered. Nathan stood wordlessly, letting each word hit his chest as each accusational finger.

"It wasn't right." Nathan said, each word falling from his mouth tactlessly.  
"'It wasn't right'! Do you know how tired I am of hearing that? Do you know how tired everyone is of hearing it? When will the record be right, huh?" he said, voice thick with the smell of alcohol.

It had been like this for weeks; they would play, Nathan would delete the record, they'd argue about it, they'd storm off and not speak with each other for a day or two. Nathan knew that he could never tell any of them what make each record they recorded so wrong without throwing himself into an outright fugue because of it. Nathan caught himself up in that thought, about how tired they all were to all of this.

"You fucking bastard. You're not listening to me, are you?"  
Pickles was losing his temper, something that he did on a regular basis recently. Instead of raising a fist to the drummer, Nathan did something else instead.  
No. Nathan shook the recollection before it grew into fruition. He opened his book to write but then set it down again. He didn't want to think about it, but it seemed as if that wasn't going to be true at that moment. It was something that wasn't supposed to surface past his own pipe dreams that always ended up involving Pickles. Maybe it had been the basis of their friendship, one that he could imagine as growing into something more. Sometimes, it was hard to make a connection with any of the women he had tried to pursue in the past; whether they were high maintenance or not necessarily loyal, leaving him wondering what was wrong. Last night... he answered himself. His ego was drenched in thick lechery that can only come from the inhibitory need to touch himself at the thought of another man, one he'd known for what felt like centuries.

He felt it last night; the intensity of emotions that he never allowed himself to feel.

He kissed him. Pickles felt the heat from Nathan's lips first, then the cool from the wall he found himself backed up against. He felt the strongest need to slap his face and swear at him; he wanted to scream, and still yet he did not want to stop. They were both invested in the kiss, like a pair of teenagers playing a game of Too Hot. Pickles was apoplectic; but found himself overcome with the instinctual need of id itself, tangling his fingers in his hair and pulling it as Nathan left gratified bruises of grazed teeth, starkly contrasted from the hand on his erection. He reciprocated; dizzy fingers searching for the buttons on Nathan's pants. He unbuttoned his pants slowly, making Nathan's breath grow sharp until he finally pulled it out .

Crude moans escaped Nathan's lips as Pickles stroked his erection, enveloping him in long, deep kiss.

Pickles found himself on his knees and looking up at Nathan with questioning eyes, partly to gauge his reaction and partly to take a short moment to recollect how the last time he had blown another man was towards the end of his Snakes n Barrels days, strung out on angel dust and apathetically unsure of whether it was night or day.  
"Oh fuck... " escaped Nathan's mouth as a sigh, shaky and breathy.  
Pickles then grinned and placed a small kiss on the tip of his penis and looked up again, green eyes glinted in the low light of the recording room.

"Okay. I'm gonna blow you first, and then you're gonna take me over there on that soundboard."  
He nodded as his drummer began to slick his erection up with his tongue up to the tip, toying with him until he began to go down on him. Nathan inhaled sharply and entangled a few locks between his fingers before Pickles took him in, wrapping his mouth around Nathan's shaft and pressing his tongue against it flat, pulling it out from the base and back in again, dragging his tongue and swirling it at the tip, making Nathan's hip arch as he began to build up a steady, albeit clumsy rhythm. His fingertips found themselves pressed against his thighs as he worked, Nathan moaning and grunting, unapologetic and animalistic, raw and throaty. One of Pickles' hands wandered down onto his own throbbing erection, jerking himself quick and dirty.

Before he could come, Pickles pulled his lips away to speak, standing up and undressing quickly as he did so.  
"You better fuck me so hard I can't walk, got it? Yer gonna fuckin' rail me right here."  
As Nathan eyed the other man up and down, feeling the blood rush to his face, his words were dense against the fervent air.  
"I can't. Ican'tIcan't." He fumbled buttoning his pants back up and turning away from Pickles sharply and mumbling a quick _I'vegottogoseeyoutomorrow_ and ducking out of the room, leaving Pickles naked and beyond indignant.

Why Nathan hadn't gone through with it was beyond his own comprehension, but he knew that it was from a selfish belief of any sort of future he could pursue, but perhaps left hanging in the air as of yesterday night. _Why should I care, anyway? Bandmates probably fuck each other all the time, no big deal._ he thought, contradicting himself immediately with another one: _But that's not what you want to do, you want something more; you could date or even--_

But then, another thought bore fruit then: _Fuck it. Do both._

He retrieved a bottle of lubricant from his nightstand and then strode to Pickles' room, his knock greeted by  
"Dood. What."  
_"Let's finish what we started last night."_


End file.
